The embers of rage burned hotter in my chest, my grip tightening on the conjured blade. The assassins moved in unison, their strikes precise, their footwork disciplined. They weren't just common killers. These were trained warriors—elites.
But I wasn't the same helpless child they might've expected.
The first assassin lunged, aiming for my throat. I twisted, my blade meeting his in a shower of sparks. Using my smaller frame to my advantage, I ducked under his next swing, stepping inside his guard. With a sharp exhale, I drove my knee into his gut before pivoting and slashing across his exposed side. Blood sprayed into the night air.
Another came at me from behind. I felt the shift in the air, the weight of his killing intent pressing against my senses. Without turning, I spun my blade backward in a reverse grip and caught his weapon mid-strike. Then, twisting my wrist, I redirected his momentum, sending him staggering forward.
The moment his balance wavered, I struck.
My sword sliced clean through his ribs. He gasped, his body seizing up before collapsing in a heap.
I barely had time to breathe before more rushed in.
Three at once.
I grinned, exhilaration mixing with my rage.
The first tried to feint high, his real strike aiming low. I caught the deception immediately. Stepping into the attack, I parried his blade to the side, then slammed the pommel of my sword into his temple. He crumpled before he even hit the ground.
The second attacker hesitated, seeing how quickly I dispatched his ally. That hesitation cost him. I surged forward, my blade tracing a crimson arc through the air. He barely got his sword up in time, but I was already moving, shifting my weight to kick his knee out from under him.
He fell, and my blade found his throat.
The last one turned to flee.
Coward.
I exhaled sharply, raising my free hand. Energy pulsed through me, a deep, raw force connected to my reforged core. For the first time since conjuring the sword, I channeled it outward. Shadows coiled around my fingers, forming into something sharp—something deadly.
I flicked my wrist.
A spear of solid energy shot from my palm, piercing clean through the man's back. He let out a strangled gasp before collapsing forward, motionless.
Silence.
The battlefield was still. The only sounds were my ragged breaths and the crackling of distant fires. My body trembled—not from fear, but from the sheer force of everything I had just done.
I stood amidst the carnage, my conjured sword still humming with residual energy. The assassins lay motionless around me, their bodies sprawled across the ruined remains of my home.
Was it over?
A slow clap echoed through the flames.
I turned sharply, my grip tightening on my sword once more.
A figure emerged from the smoke, stepping over the fallen assassins without a care. Tall, broad-shouldered, and exuding an aura of overwhelming confidence. His hair was dark, streaked with silver—a feature I recognized instantly.
His eyes, sharp and knowing, met mine with an unreadable expression.
"Not bad," he mused, his voice calm, almost amused. "You've inherited more than just your mother's looks, it seems."
Father.
***
I tightened my grip on the sword, my chest heaving with each breath. The momentary adrenaline rush hadn't dulled my thoughts. If Father was here… then where was—
"Where is Mother?" My voice was sharp, urgent.
He stopped walking, his gaze settling on me with something unreadable. His usual composed demeanor didn't waver, but I saw it—the faintest flicker of something in his eyes.
"She's alive," he said finally. "Handling things elsewhere."
That answer wasn't enough.
"Where?" I pressed, stepping forward. "Is she hurt? Why isn't she here?"
He sighed, glancing at the destruction around us before returning his gaze to me. "She's taking care of the ones responsible for this."
I blinked. "Alone?"
"Of course," he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
That… actually made sense. If anyone could hunt them down without hesitation, it was her. But still—
I clenched my jaw. "Why didn't she take me with her?"
His lips twitched, almost like he was suppressing a smirk. "You're strong, but you're not ready for that."
I scowled, gripping my conjured sword tightly. "Not ready?" I echoed, my voice laced with frustration. "I just fought my way out of a burning wreckage. I—"
Father held up a hand, stopping me mid-sentence. "You fought well," he acknowledged. "But survival and battle are not the same thing. You don't know what's waiting beyond these walls."
I hated that he was right. But that didn't mean I had to accept it.
"She should've told me," I muttered.
"She made a choice to protect you," Father said. His gaze softened—just slightly. "And it was the right one."
I wanted to argue, to demand to know more, but before I could, a new thought struck me. The house—our estate—was gone. The servants… my friends. Were they—
"What about everyone else?" I asked, my voice quieter now. "The servants, the guards—"
Father's expression darkened, just for a moment. "Some survived," he said. "Not all."
I exhaled sharply, trying to suppress the rising anger in my chest. I already knew the answer before I asked. The blood. The bodies. I had seen enough death in my past life to recognize its aftermath.
Still, hearing it confirmed made it feel heavier.
Father placed a hand on my shoulder. "Mourning comes later. Right now, we focus on what's next."
I looked up at him, my grip on my sword loosening slightly. "And what is next?"
He glanced toward the horizon, where the glow of fires still burned in the distance. "War."
I took a step forward, voice trembling with rage. "How did you guys get out and know but not tell me? Because it was 'safer' that way?" My hands clenched into fists. "BUT MY FRIENDS DIED!"
Father exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. "It was never an easy choice."
I let out a bitter laugh. "Easy? You left me there! You got out—you knew! And you said NOTHING!"
He didn't react to my outburst, which only made me angrier. "We had to be careful," he said, his voice calm, measured, as if he was trying to pacify me. "If you knew, if you had any idea, your reaction would have made you a target."
I shook my head, disbelief washing over me. "So you just let them die? The people who raised me, who served this house with their lives—YOU LEFT THEM?"
Father's jaw tightened, the first sign of emotion breaking through his stoic mask. "I made a choice to protect my family."
I stepped closer, staring up at him. "Then why am I the only one who had to suffer for it?" My voice was hoarse, raw. "They were my family too!"
His lips pressed into a thin line, and for a second, I thought he wouldn't answer. Then, finally, he spoke. "I regret every life lost that night."
"That's not good enough," I spat.
"I know," he admitted. "But it's the truth."
I hated that he said it like that, like it was some undeniable fact I just had to accept. Like this was something I could move on from. But I couldn't. I wouldn't.
Because they were gone. And I was still here.
My breath was ragged, my fists trembling at my sides. I took another step toward him, my voice rising.
"It's not 'that' night, Father…" My teeth clenched, the fury inside me boiling over. "THAT NIGHT IS FUCKING NOW! ACKNOWLEDGE IT!"
The words echoed, cutting through the silence like a blade.
Father's expression darkened, his hands tightening at his sides. For the first time, his mask of composure cracked.
"I do acknowledge it." His voice was quieter now, but there was something dangerous beneath it—something heavy. "Every second of it."
I scoffed, shaking my head. "Do you?" I glared at him, searching for any sign of remorse, of regret deeper than just words. "Because from where I stand, it looks like you got out just fine while everyone else BURNED!"
Father's gaze sharpened. "And if I had taken you with me, do you think you would've survived?"
"I DON'T CARE!" I roared. "I would've fought! I would've done something! Instead, I was left behind like some fragile little thing—left to watch as everything I knew was torn apart!"
His eyes bore into mine, unflinching. "And yet, you lived."
My breath hitched, my body trembling with fury. "And what the hell am I supposed to do with that, huh?" My voice cracked. "Just live? Just move on?"
Father didn't answer immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch, heavy and suffocating. Then, finally, he spoke.
"No," he said. "You remember. You learn from it. And then, when the time comes…" He met my gaze, something dangerous flickering behind his eyes.
"You make them pay."
I clenched my jaw, my nails digging into my palms. "Who lived?" I repeated, my voice tight with restraint.
Father exhaled slowly. "Your mother though you already know that as i told you, myself, a few knights, and some of the higher-ranked servants."
I nodded stiffly. "And the rest?"
His silence spoke louder than words.
My stomach twisted, rage and grief tangling into something sharp. I sucked in a breath, forcing the lump in my throat down.
"They didn't make it."
I already knew. I had already felt it in my bones the moment the explosion tore through our home, but hearing him say it carved the truth deeper into my skin.